


Not Bored

by laEsmeralda



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-02
Updated: 2013-07-02
Packaged: 2017-12-16 21:26:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/866780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laEsmeralda/pseuds/laEsmeralda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A near-death experience clarifies two of Sherlock’s flirtatious relationships.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Not Bored

**Author's Note:**

> BBC Series 1 ending spoiler.

John was certain his legs would fail—both of them, equally. 

3 a.m. and finally there was no more adrenaline. But Sherlock shouldered at him in the semi-dark and they managed to stumble up the last half of the staircase under each others’ momentum. 

Near death. Nothing new, really. But always new. 

One kitchen light was still on. Mrs. Hudson had cleared up and closed up a bit. Their not-housekeeper couldn’t help herself it seemed. They arrived in the living room, dim with the streetlight blocked by stopgap window repair. Whether because of the collective shocks of the day and night or Sherlock’s inability to respect personal space, they didn’t move apart.

“It’s only temporary, you know,” John said, staring at the wall where Sherlock had, with John’s bullets, chipped out a smiley face.

“Obviously. If he wanted us dead…”

“He _wants_ you, he doesn’t want you dead, despite all efforts to the contrary. Me, now there’s another story.”

There was a moment of silence but for the ringing of ears, the lingering scent of chlorine, a light dust of mortar. 

Finally—“Quite so. But he knows your importance, which is why he tried to insult us both with a pet reference _totes inappropes_. He was right about one thing, and one thing only.”

John turned away from the now starkly telling symbol and gave his full attention to the pale face and eyes very close above; they managed to gather what little light the room provided. Being Sherlock, the one needed to know his audience was rapt for the ensuing revelation, and being John, the other had to please. “What’s that?”

“You’ve rather shown your hand.”

The mouth on his, hands on his face, jolted one more surge of adrenaline from John’s exhausted system, but not enough to allow him to move straight away. Which is why he had a moment to _feel_ it before reacting as he was supposed to, expected to. It was a glorious, demanding-yet-asking, hint of wet, rife with desperation, muscular kiss that reached down his spine and dragged him against Sherlock. John gripped the heavy, damp tweed of Sherlock’s coat and yanked it off his shoulders, forcing the hands off his face, and then tore at his thin shirt until John’s hands could slide inside against chilled-warm skin of waist and ribs. He kissed back, opening, hesitant only in the novelty. It didn’t matter. Sherlock’s hands wrestled out of his coat sleeves and found the small of John’s back and they clung together, the smells of pool water and dried stress and wet wool and heating bodies rising. 

Without much warning at all, John singled out of the onslaught of sensations that he was about to grind out an orgasm against Sherlock’s hip, and he nearly tried to stop himself but Sherlock groaned into his mouth and shuddered hard, to which John gave back as good. 

Only when breath was caught and the sharp tang of semen soaking into clothing made itself known did they step away. John made sure his hands slid away last, gently, from Sherlock’s waist. 

“Adrenaline. Spectre of death. John, despite occasionally having you on, I _know_ you’re not gay. That was completely, utterly my fault.” 

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters,” replied the man who gave not a whit for others’ sensibilities. Sherlock was backing away, retreating towards his room. 

John started to circle behind him. “No. I mean it doesn’t matter what I am or I’m not. You either.” It wouldn’t do to speak of war-time fumblings or accepting release offered by a willing mouth, Sherlock would have discerned all that by now and understood what it _didn’t_ mean. “You can just say ‘thanks, let’s never speak of it again’ if that’s what you want, but don’t condescend to apologize. You can’t have failed to notice that I was fully participating.”

Solely due to Sherlock’s fierce pride, his refusal to actually flee into his room, did John make it to the doorjamb first. He folded his arms, trying hard to ignore the chilling wet of his trousers or the flush of his own face. “Listen, you.” He didn’t want to say too much, wasn’t really sure what to say to make anything go back to what passed for normal in this house. When the thought arrived, he stifled a snicker. “Let’s just say, I’m definitely not bored.” 

It was so worth it to see Sherlock smile.   
*******


	2. Juxtapositions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A truly disruptive force has entered Sherlock’s life and John struggles to adapt as he realizes that Moriarity isn’t their worst problem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> spoiler for Series 2, Episode 1, _A Scandal in Belgravia_

John has been anxious lately. Sherlock discerns that the lie is weighing upon him. John only lies for a good cause and is, consequently, utter shite at it. Sherlock has allowed John to believe that he _believes_ the comforting falsehood.

But it isn’t only the lie that rubs. John’s anxiety is palpable.

All the while protesting it, John let slip—because of Adler—a possessiveness of Sherlock that still thrills along the spine when recollected. Since then, he has observed John even more closely, if such is possible. 

He is often of two or more minds when mentally dissecting John. Usually, as data amass, the possibilities for conclusion narrow. Regarding John, the options do not narrow. 

Adler, in her magnificence in all ways devious, brilliant, and tragically flawed, has captured Sherlock in a way no woman ever has. Clearly, in his confirmed straightness, John never thought a threat to the intimacy of 221B would come from that sort of left field. His insecurity amuses Sherlock.

They are so strongly juxtaposed, Watson and Adler, that Sherlock wonders how interesting one would be to him without the other. He immediately discards that speculation. John was interesting even as Sherlock was legitimately insulting him in the beginning, calling him dull, venting his frustration.

It isn’t John’s intelligence that intrigues Sherlock—he’s just smart enough not to be impossible—but his warm, tender, and vast wisdom, that quality so inaccessible to Sherlock that it might as well be magic: that is a magnet. Sherlock runs on deductive power, John on strong induction. Their instincts are a match, an interplay of light and shadow. It is interesting that who plays light and who embodies dark shifts between them.

It occurs to Sherlock for the first time that as exciting as his opposites are, _id est_ , Adler and Moriarity, in different ways, he does not want a home or a partnership with an adversary. Complementary skills are a better fit in that sphere. Quieter is not necessarily dull. He wants someone close he can read, with whom he can communicate with or without speech. 

Sherlock is not attracted to Moriarity, rather, he is obsessed with beating him. M’s intelligence inextricably entwines with insanity. Sherlock is not intentionally cruel. Generally. Window pitching of CIA agents notwithstanding. Cruelty is a sign of need. It is a waste of valuable energy. M’s unceasing need will lead him to a mistake. That is a disappointment, a sign of an unworthy adversary. Those dark, greedy eyes, his sultry looks, which on a sane man could lead to fantasies, are instead a distinct turnoff.

It has been a long time since the night encounter in the pool and what followed at home with John. It is possible that John has mistakenly concluded that Sherlock was so affected by M, or his game, as to transfer that lust to John. In point of fact, the adrenaline only gave Sherlock the abandon to act in a fashion he normally abhors, to feel what he generally avoids. 

He still looks at John, every day, with that feeling in mind. 

Although a general description might lead to a conclusion of ordinary, average, John is not. Sherlock prefers the specific: lines of changeable expression, faded pock marks that help explain a sometimes painful shyness, fascinatingly variegated brown and silver hair, rather large ears which are somehow not silly, eyes of brown-green-gray, a body slim, slight, and very strong, hands equally competent with gun and scalpel. If John’s wardrobe were more like Sherlock’s, he would attract different attention. Instead, he favors jumpers that suggest a belly he does not have. 

And the visual data are so limiting. 

Sherlock closes his eyes. He knows other details since that night. John’s close-up scents. The buttery texture of his skin—wrists, face, neck. The strength in his hands. The sound of his most gentle voice, his breath near the peak. Sherlock rarely spares the attention or energy for sexual response, even involuntarily, but these thoughts bring him hard. 

Despite John’s unflinching declaration that night, he has not made a play. Sherlock has been both puzzled and resolved not to aggress again. They were not themselves. 

John is making tea. Sherlock watches him move, easy, fluid, confident: the hitching, stumbling, limping of first days together gone. He smiles. This is further evidence of his effect. And yet, there is a furrow…. He sighs and flips the book over in his lap. John turns, regards him as he sits in the favored chair. Cannot discern the stubborn erection thanks to James Joyce. Best use for such pedantry, really.

“You alright?”

“It isn’t me with whom I am concerned at present.”

John brings the tray, places it between them. “I’m fine.”

“Of course you are, as always.” Sherlock accepts a cup. John had been able to discern the subject of his concern, and the conclusion was not drawn from a general assumption; Sherlock is keenly aware of being _not_ a considerate flat mate or friend. He sips. “But on edge.” 

John shrugs and sips as well. “We’ve been working hard.”

“Obviously. No more than usual.”

“You actually reading Joyce? I quit outright at ‘the ineluctable modality of the audible.’” 

John possesses a vast, if underutilized vocabulary, which nevertheless requires constant spell-checking. And he does not admire the imperious. “No dissembling,” Sherlock orders. “Or distraction. I’m on a hunt.”

John sits back in the chair, resigned. “Fine. Hunt away.”

Sherlock looks him over. John lets him. _Snagged jumper meticulously mended today, field-style repair. Needle stab in thumb, result of distracted thoughts. Moderate dark circles, somewhat unslept. Shoulders carried forward--insecurity. Post-shift fresh shave. Cologne, unlike John to wear it at all, faint but not a transfer from someone else._

“Have a date?”

John grimaces and folds his arms. 

“Right. Bad luck, that.” More like sabotage. Sherlock hides a smile behind his teacup. He is sure John has been on his own for two whole months since. It is a bit odd that in that time he’s barely even tried to find a girl.

_Scent not for date. Darkish, male, exotic, something of East India. Not bought by a woman, or else given by a tricky woman, a type with which John does not consort. Bare feet. Still dampish from washing. Nails freshly clipped on toes and fingers. One finger absently scratching fabric at knee._ Oh dear. Another sip. 

He has left John thinking _that_ night resulted from conditions highly unlikely to recur. And yet, John has taken particular care with his person with no other reason apparent than readiness for more intimate attention, without any pending opportunities. Having resolved not to repeat a near-ravishment, Sherlock tents his fingers. Goes for the jugular. “You’ve no reason to be jealous of her.”

John’s eyes flash with a bit of anger. He starts to answer. Doesn’t.

“Good. You could have made a boring protest. Pointless.” He closes the book, temporarily safe, places it on the side table. “What we have is what we have. Only one or the other of us can change that. No one else.” With that, he dispenses of The Woman’s effect. “It should have occurred to you at some point to establish for yourself that I’ve never sought nor tolerated a flat mate before.”

John absorbs that. 

“And yet, here you are.” Sherlock elaborates. “Despite all the annoying things about you.” He knows his lips are quirked in a smile, softening the factual statement.

“You didn’t even know me when you decided to look for someone to share.”

“Mere window gazing does not equate to a decision to purchase.” Sherlock recrosses his legs. “Despite explorations, it was genuinely out of the question until you.” He watches John’s throat as he abruptly swallows. 

“That’s nice to hear.”

“And you’ve only momentarily succeeded in changing the subject. It has been difficult for me to accept that you would respond to _me_ in a libidinous manner. You stand by your definition of self as heterosexual. I observe your various interests. I watched you respond to Adler, just as fiercely as you pushed her away in all respects. Your perceived orientation is not a sham, your denials of being gay—an overly limiting definition which I myself protest by the way—perfectly reasonable. Therefore, I concluded that your sense of nobility, your platonic care for me, required you to excuse my behavior that night. You might understand why I would not repeat it.”

The expressions passing through on the way to greater comprehension fascinate Sherlock. People would mistake John for an uncomplicated man at their peril. 

“You _love_ her.” John puts down his cup. “I didn’t know it was possible.”

“Nor did I. How does that bear on our situation?” John doesn’t answer. “I shan’t lose focus no matter the bucket of red herrings you have at the ready.” Sherlock recalls the agonizingly solid connection of John’s fist with his face and Adler’s assessment that only someone who loved him would spare his features that way. “Your most recent ablutions are not lost on me.” 

John reddens. It is somehow more charming than ridiculous.

Sherlock takes the next plunge. “If you can bring yourself to rise from that chair and walk the two steps required to come to me now, I will demonstrate the irrelevance of your earlier point about love.” He watches John struggle with himself, and for a moment, he reads in the clenched fingers and almost-movement the desire to do exactly that. But it is far too bold a request, as he knew when he made it. John requires him to make the move in order to reconcile with himself. That will not happen again. With a smile he hopes is gentle, he stands and retires to his room, letting a hand rest on John’s shoulder and then graze his back as it falls away.  
*******

Several days have passed, immersed again in the work. Sherlock admires that John can so easily maintain rhythm with him despite Sherlock’s confrontation of the proverbial elephant. It is slightly more difficult for Sherlock. Only the deepest concentration, the most interesting details, can make him forget to notice John’s physicality. Time will assist, he is certain. It is only the permission granted for such sensations to surface, in order to test the bars from both sides, that makes them temporarily restless and unruly. They will quiet again.

He is sleeping at night, a rarity, perhaps facilitated by masturbatory sessions that are equally rare in the normal course of his life but currently frequent. 

It is out of an unusually sound sleep, therefore, that he emerges to realize that John is sitting on the edge of his bed, an immediately recognized shadow against the ambient light from the street. His eyes snap open, then slit so as not to give away the change in his state. He keeps his breathing even. 

John is bare-chested, a dusting of light sheening his shoulders, but wearing pajama bottoms, a silly convention. Of course, it does mean that someone besides Mrs. Hudson is always decent to answer odd-hour callers. Useful. 

John watches him. Sherlock begins to believe that watching is the strange purpose of this visit.

And then a hand lifts and descends to rest on his chest, over his heart. “It’s me,” John says. “Sorry to wake you.”

Sherlock snuffles and stretches. “Problem?” he yawns.

“Not the sort you mean.”

That elicits a chuckle. “I never limit the set until I have data.”

John has not moved his hand. Sherlock wonders what John will notice first, the shift in his heart rate or the expanding lump in the sheets. He can’t see John’s face, shadowed as it is. John takes Sherlock’s near hand in his other and caresses it for a brief moment before placing it at John’s groin, hard and damp through cotton. At the touch, John stifles a gasp, so edgy, so ready. 

Sherlock reassures him with a light squeeze and a thundering heartbeat. This is far, far better than a few awkward steps in the living room, this decision to descend the stairs, cross a whole flat, open a private door, wake him with no prepared alternative explanation, and make the first move—not to try to relieve him as a gift, but to announce in the plainest possible way that John is in want of Sherlock’s touch. Much better than Christmas could ever aspire to be.

He sits up and ducks in to touch his mouth gently to John’s, hoping as he lies back, drawing John with him, to have conveyed more intention than he might have last time. _The Virgin_ is a misnomer, unless one regards vaginal penetration as necessary which—granted—has not been part of his varied topographical explorations to date. He does not think John will suffer for that particular inexperience. 

Sherlock intends to make this memorable in a different way than their speed-clinch celebration of their own and one another’s survival. But he isn’t certain John can keep pace with him. The merest brush of fingers along John’s shoulders has him shuddering dangerously. Sherlock has deduced that the shortness of John’s relationships are directly related to the number of dangerous and consuming interruptions in the flow of his life and not to sexual dissatisfaction on the part of the women. _Ergo_ , John is on the trembling edge for a reason having to do with Sherlock, and not due to a condition of prematurity. A happy fact.

Sherlock breaks the kiss and rolls John to his back, slipping down by his side and stripping down the pajamas. “Shh,” he says, placing a hand on John’s belly and stroking in circles. Questions will lead to more data, but also to less openness in John’s face, which without backlighting is now wonderfully easy to read. So he keeps his hand where it is and renews the kiss, taking his time, now softer, now more insistent, like a wash of the tide, until he feels John relax. He kisses down throat and sternum before lifting his face, prepared to ask, _More?_ until he sees John’s expression. It makes him want to devour John, provide him with the advanced course, fuck him into next month, but he’s neither willing to assume the non-virginity on John’s part that would be required, nor to ask after it. He applies willpower and resumes a downward path with just lips and fingertips and the occasional application of tooth-edge.

At the point where he sucks the flesh just over John’s xiphisternum, Sherlock feels John’s fingers tentatively slide into his hair and then start to pull back as though afraid of taking a liberty. Sherlock nudges his head against John’s hand like a great housecat, and John’s fingers sink deep, spreading against his scalp, sending a spark down his spine. 

" _Khodaye man_ ," John gasps as Sherlock’s tongue sweeps into his navel. He has manfully endured prolonged attention to his underarms and chest with barely a sound. 

Sherlock smiles against the rich skin of John’s belly where it just begins to tickle his lips with hair. It is particularly pleasing that John would choose Dari rather than the more common Pashto. “I very much appreciate the gesture,” he says, resting his chin on a hand so as not to poke John. “Is it possible you think that this could be running dull for me? A simple, _Oh God_ , would suffice in this context.”

Despite being short of breath, John huffs a laugh. 

“In fact, I’d prefer that your mind lose its ability to access second and third languages. Out of respect for my considerable talents.” 

“English is almost out of reach at this point.”

Sherlock returns his attention to John’s navel, which results to his delight in actual squirming. He is centimeters from mouthing the prize, but from its independent movement in time with John’s pulse, he gathers that doing so will considerably shorten their fun. He runs his fingertips lightly down along it—which brings the small of John’s back off the bed—and continues over balls and behind them. There, Sherlock freezes. 

It has been a length of time (he thinks back), years in fact, but he recalls with perfect clarity the texture and cooling effect of water-based lubricant. He explores a bit. Contemplates. Insufficient data. “Exactly how prepared are you?” His words are neutral, but the mere concept has him dampening the sheets. 

John is very still. “Doctor,” he says by way of answer, his voice a bit reedy.

“A thorough one, if I know you at all, which I’m rather beginning to question.” He feels at the pajama pockets and hears a light crackle. He strips the garment the rest of the way off. “I should have phrased my question more precisely.” Instead of doing so, he smoothly slips in a finger to the second knuckle. John’s body answers his question honestly. When the internal muscles have stopped clenching, Sherlock adds a second finger. Similar response. He gently but briskly withdraws, which results in a deep shudder, and elbows his way up the bed to look into John’s face. He allows his aching self to press against John’s thigh, giving a clear map of his concern. “Your research is flattering,” he says, dryly. “Never met a first-timer before who knew to apply the stuff _inside._ ” 

“Who says… oh, forget it. You always know when I lie.”

“Which begs the question how you thought you could possibly fool me about that witness protection nonsense?”

There’s an extended moment of silence. “Had to try.”

“For my own good, and all that. She’s alive. I rescued her.” This is having the desired effect. John is cooling. “I always prefer the truth, unlike most people. That said, your protectiveness was noted in the positives column.”

“You didn’t tell me.”

“For your protection.”

“If Adler is on the loose, keeping me in the dark is not protection. The warehouse, for example.”

“You were safe. I followed.”

John appears to contemplate that. “I suppose I prefer the truth too.”

“Noted.” There is something else John isn’t saying or won’t ask. Sherlock runs the possibilities and settles on the best candidate. “I had you pegged for fucking _me_ in the remote event that we would find ourselves here.”

“I haven’t ruled anything out,” John replies evenly.

“As I am only wrong when presented with faulty or insufficient data and pressed prematurely for an answer, I am concerned that you’re offering yourself because of her.” 

Rather than protesting, John lies there quietly. “I hadn’t considered it.”

The lack of sputtering denial is actually encouraging. “Consider this. I did not have sexual congress, or physical contact approximating such, with her.”

“You wanted to.”

“Do I strike you as a person who refrains from doing exactly as I please?”

As grave as John was a moment ago, he breaks into breathy laughter. 

Sherlock smiles with him. “Now then. Still feeling keen to be repeatedly rammed up the ass with a 17 centimeter—actually, the diameter would be of most import—a 4 centimeter in diameter blunt object?”

“Measured and rechecked, no doubt. You might have singlehandedly ruined sex talk for all time.”

Sherlock thinks at that moment that just the right dimple in a chin can overcome many of a friend’s annoying habits. Absurd and illogical. And yet…

John smiles up at him bemusedly. “Until she came along, I’d never thought of you as man of appetites, but what’s digging into my leg has somehow survived this dreadful conversation.”

“Something worth doing at all is worth doing with complete focus.”

“I was appreciating your focus earlier.” 

Sherlock’s hand closes over John, finds him responding favorably to the current direction of the conversation. “I determined that we needed to clear away some irrelevancies. Back to my fact-filled and enlightening question that you found so… off-putting…”

“Yes, I do happen to be keen for it. Which I cannot explain to you in any way that you will understand, because I don’t understand it myself.” 

“Why tonight?”

John slings an arm behind his head. “I was _exactly_ as prepared the other night.”

Sherlock sucks in a breath hard as he hears the words first with his cock and then his ears. 

“Except for the part where I couldn’t move. Regrettably.” He reaches up and thumbs Sherlock’s bottom lip. “I wasn’t expecting you to ask me to initiate.”

“No, you were expecting me to storm the castle.” Sherlock sighs. “Who could blame you.” He strokes along very smooth, tight skin. “However, I don’t _do_ novices.”

“And I don’t _do_ men. In this contest of never-going-to-happen-but-does, I think I win.”

“There is no contest of any kind with me in which you win,” Sherlock says, low and, he hopes, icily. “Unless I let you.”

“You _want_ me to win this one.” There’s a hitch in John’s voice resulting from Sherlock’s attention. 

“Aside from the fleeting joy I derive from causing you to add items to your self-improvement list faster than you can subtract them, I don’t like hurting you. This might come as a shock.”

John regards him for a moment. “Think of all the pain I’ve had for no pleasure at all. Conversely, you’re about to hurt me, a little, in the service of pleasing me a great deal.”

“Means-to-an-end argument. Dull.” Sherlock is secretly pleased that John has earnestly and properly used the term _conversely._

“Fucking _do_ this and stop torturing me.”

More than anything else, it is John’s loss of attempted eloquence that causes Sherlock to smother him with kisses, first reducing him to chuckles and then, as the kisses slow and linger and touch places other than his face, to other interesting sounds Sherlock hasn’t heard him make before. Now, he deems it safe to slide that deliciousness he’s been avoiding into his mouth and finds his assumption correct, that the hiatus slowed John enough to keep him from letting go too soon. But it’s a near thing when he leaves off. 

He moves up to hover over John, brushing noses, teasing lips with a near-kiss, allowing his cock to graze along John’s. “You’re very different like this. And not,” Sherlock observes. 

“Perhaps later you’ll explain, when you aren’t about to—“

“Fuck you into absolute oblivion?” Sherlock puts a bit of snarl into his voice and John’s eyes slide closed for a millisecond before flashing open again. 

“Condom. Pocket,” John manages to gasp. 

“Mmm, I think not. My rare indulgences are always safe, yet I test every six months. Strictly paranoia.” He lowers his mouth to lick just under John’s ear. “Been a very long time this time. I’ve heard it will be much, much more comfortable for you without one.”

“But I’ve—”

“I know. Spare me the details. Ever slipped up with one of your women?”

John shakes his head.

Sherlock more than half thinks that John’s trust of him cannot possibly override that stubborn streak of wisdom and he has to test it. He doesn’t add that as a matter of implacable fastidiousness, he has never swallowed nor fucked nor been fucked without condoms and is throwing reason to the wind for John. Sherlock lowers his voice to its most intimate level. 

“That’s my wise Dr. Watson. I want to be completely naked with you.” 

“Oh, God.”

_There it is_ , better than a jolt of nicotine, that moment when John can no longer even try to impress him. “I must have your clear consent.”

“Yes.”

He doesn’t draw it out, considers it an act of mercy. With fluidity, legs shifting from outside John’s to inside, mouth descending to mouth, confidently pressing through the inevitable resistance, he seats himself and swallows John’s cry. He stills and waits a few heartbeats, feeling the tension increase and then ease as John struggles to not fight him. It’s difficult now for Sherlock to hold back when he wants to abandon himself to the experience. His arms are starting to shake. And then, miraculously, he feels John relax, and tighten around him _on purpose_.

“Now what?” John finally breathes. 

At last, he can lower his weight, optimize the skin-feel. Unexpectedly, John bites the join of his shoulder and neck, a fierce, brief pain. “Ow!” exclaims Sherlock.

“We’re even,” John replies. 

Not even close, Sherlock recalls, even thought the bite throbs a bit. But he accepts the attempt to put him at ease. He starts to move, eschewing the crude thrust for a more connected, swirling movement. It has the desired effect of drawing a soft groan from John that doesn’t sound like pain. Against his belly, the easy slide of John’s stiffening flesh assures him that pleasure has returned. Sherlock buries his nose in John’s hair, surprised. He had rather expected John to feign enjoyment, to tough it out until Sherlock ended the experiment with, “Well, we tried.” Fantasies of late involving the wall or the kitchen table only work because fantasy-John has experience and very few pain receptors. 

Sherlock entertains the hopeful theory that John might be the sort, like himself, who derives genuine physical pleasure from the act of receiving.

John further surprises him by running his hands along sharp shoulder blades, down his back, dipping into the hollow at the small of his back, gripping his ass. A few more swirls of Sherlock’s hips and John’s legs are bending back on themselves, making the angle easier. 

Being himself, he wants very badly to talk, yet it seems peculiarly important not to break John’s concentration just now. He wishes for more light. Instead, he soaks in John’s warm scent, their rhythm of breath, and the press of fingers. Never has he resented latex, and yet it is exquisitely right to have nothing between them. _This once_ , with this man. 

John isn’t speaking, but his mouth moving against Sherlock’s neck could not agree more. Between the gentle suction of clinging lips, Sherlock can hear every caught breath, every tiny variation in John’s nearly silent response. Sherlock appreciates the subtlety. Forgetting his manners a moment, he goes harder, deeper, and John sucks in a loud breath. 

“Sorry,” Sherlock hastens to say through the sparks clouding his own vision.

“No,” John husks. “ _That’s_ what everyone means.”

“Everyone?”

“Men. Who do this. For fun. Do it again.” Sherlock does. John’s eyes roll. “God. Not a fluke.”

Obliging with a few more strokes, Sherlock basks in John’s quietly appreciative moans. This, then, is how they move together best. Sherlock’s heart is racing at the thought that John could experience full-blown ecstasy with him. But a warning is in order. “My frankly stunning ability to maintain the necessary erection and yet not bring this to a crescendo is likely to end quite soon.” He hesitates, uncharacteristically concerned. “Are you fully prepared for me to—“

“Yes!” John interrupts in a velvety tone that nearly makes it happen right then. “I will fucking shoot you dead with my service revolver if you don’t.” His fingers tighten on the flesh of Sherlock’s ass.

Sherlock barks a laugh. “You surprise me, John,” he says. 

“That’s a first,” John quips, and then he pulls Sherlock’s face down into a kiss, for which John has to make himself longer by arching up and therefore by clenching down. Sherlock follows his lead, understanding too late that there is no amount of willpower he can exert to stop the chain reaction now. 

To an observer, there would appear to occur too little movement to explain how they could be suddenly so beside themselves, nothing to squeak or creak the bed or floor, only an entanglement, a great undulation in which neither separates even a millimeter from the other. 

For Sherlock, it is the most agonizing orgasm he has ever had, an abrupt cleaving from his mind, caught in a rip tide formed of the liquid heat of their mouths, searing breath, skins slick with sweat, and John’s molten essence, the undertow pulling him deeper inside John, the moment shocking through him, slamming Sherlock against the rocks. 

His face is wet, which he does not understand. His belly is wet, _quippe_. He cannot have been away long, based upon the brisk pace of John’s breath and heart against his cheek, but somehow, he is on his back, not at all where he last recalls being. Then he comes to comprehend his wet face. 

“You alright?” John murmurs. 

Desire for clever retorts to the contrary, he shakes his head. His throat is sore. He swallows hard, trying to ease it.

“I think perhaps you go too long between,” John observes, propping gingerly on an elbow.

“Don’t. You dare.” He would be embarrassed at the tears running into his hair, but that would require resources currently outside his grasp.

“What.” John replies, softly. “It’s true.”

“You think you’re sparing me, reducing it like that.”

“Aren’t I?”

“Never try to reduce one of life’s higher order experiences,” he rasps.

John takes a beat. “What happened to simple chemistry?” His expression, in the dusky light to which they are now both accustomed, is as loving as it always is until Sherlock feels obliged to slam it shut with a cutting remark. From which he refrains this time. John gets up, putters around the side of the bed a bit, returns with a washcloth and puts it to use. 

Sherlock lets him. “I was speaking then about an untried sentiment, in quest for which people throw away good sense.”

“If I follow your argument, this is not that?”

“Apparently not.”

“I see.”

“You probably don’t.”

“For the moment, I’ll settle for, ‘That blew my mind.’”

“Did it?”

John looks amused. “You were there.”

“Not really,” Sherlock says, honestly. 

“Then, where did you go?”

“Don’t feign stupidity.”

John raises an eyebrow. 

“When I call you stupid, or say ‘don’t be stupid,’ it’s a relative marker, of course, not an absolute. You’re perfectly competent.”

Beaming toothily, John says, “So… it isn’t always like that?”

Sherlock detects that he isn’t fishing, he truly wants to know. He sighs in an effort to set aside intellect a bit longer. “No.”

“Brilliant. Now, aren’t you glad you let me win?”

Sherlock rolls himself in the sheet. “Ask me in the morning.” He does not order John out.  
*******  
Toast is crunching, newspaper crackling. Sherlock is bored. But he’ll be damned if he brings _it_ up. John is tapping away at the laptop, rudely in Sherlock’s opinion, during breakfast. So what if they are cases behind in the public eye. Little matter. 

John was gone this morning when the light forced Sherlock awake. He was blogging away by the time Sherlock emerged, and his greeting was friendly and light. Everything seems fine, normal, which is oddly a bit distressing. 

Mrs. Hudson returns with a fresh pot of tea. She sits and pours. Waits after, with hands folded in her lap (according to Sherlock’s excellent peripheral vision). She huffs when neither of them look at her. Still, neither of them look at her. Sherlock turns a page. Although he’s interested in hearing what John has to say this morning, he is very much not interested in standard prattle about the weather, neighbors, etc.

The tea towel lands in the middle of the table with a damp sound. “All right, boys, we’ll play it your way.” John flinches, which brings Sherlock out from behind his paper. Their eyes meet, and there is a sudden twitching of lips as they try not to smile at one another. 

Sherlock fixes a theatrically stony gaze on Mrs. Hudson. “What then, is so important that it must interrupt the _Gazette?_ ” he asks, archly.

Mrs. Hudson looks pleased at having their full attention. “There was a raucous disturbance up here late last night, of a clearly sexual nature, no point mincing words.” She folds her arms and looks pointedly at John. “I believe you owe me an apology, Doctor.”

He blushes to the very tips of his ears. 

Sherlock scrambles for something to say, opens his mouth. Mrs. Hudson forestalls him with a hand up. 

John closes his eyes, gathering himself, and then looks at her. “I’m terribly sorry, Mrs. Hudson,” he begins, on his best manners, “mortified, actually, for the noise. I—“

“No, silly man,” she smiles broadly, “for biting my head off when I first asked whether you’d need the upstairs room. As though I had it all wrong.” She tuts at him.

John protests, “But I’m _not_ —“

“Rather beside the point, don’t you think?” She cocks her head at him.

“Indeed,” Sherlock adds, pouring himself more tea.

“Shut up, You,” John says to Sherlock, face in his hands.

Mrs. Hudson sips tea and then jabs her cup at Sherlock. “You’re the one owes me an apology for making a bloody racket. Never would have pegged you for noisy in that way, but there it was, more than I ever needed to hear. Might as well have been in the same room.” She leans to John. “Bravo, you, by the way.”

Flabbergasted, Sherlock regards her for a long moment. “You’re gloating.”

She smiles back at him and shrugs a shoulder. “Glad for you actually.”

“Don’t be such a know it all,” he says, flicking the paper open again.

“Ooh that’s the pot,” she replies, standing up. “I’ll leave you to it, don’t suppose you’ve had a proper chat.” Out she goes, humming to herself.

There is another extended silence. “Thoroughly horrified?” Sherlock mutters from behind the paper. 

“Well, that wasn’t a conversation I was prepared to have. Under any conditions.” John has not faded back to his normal coloring. “You either, I think.”

“Don’t like being blindsided. Rare occurrence.”

“Right. So, the chat. Other than what just happened over tea, which I would like never to speak of again, it was an amazing experience. I thought you’d want some space, especially since… oh, never mind that. I just wouldn’t want you to think I’m fretting. Everything’s fine.”

Sherlock puts the paper aside. “Thank you for that. An unnecessary reassurance, however. I’m perfectly capable of expressing that I’d like to repeat it as well as explore other permutations.” Sherlock frowns. “Although, I don’t recall being the slightest bit loud, perhaps you could enlighten me.” 

John’s smile is at once sympathetic and triumphant, all in all a bit alarming. “You went away, remember?“

“Ah, yes.” It had been unusually worth celebrating aloud, therefore, he can excuse himself a few unintentional vocalizations, particularly as he had apparently nearly passed out. “But if she didn’t hear you, how did she know I wasn’t with someone else?” He doesn’t mean it as a jab, and fortunately, John’s face communicates that it isn’t taken as such. With assistance from that look, his ecstatic amnesia begins to lift. “Oh, God,” he declares, with feeling, as John curbs his smile and pours more tea.  
*******


End file.
